A Pleasure to See You Burn
by AWildeRomantic
Summary: Tracking down a gang leader who threatens the very structure of London, John and Sherlock begin to realize just how essential, and how dangerous, their need for each other can be. Slash.
1. Chapter 1: Here Comes a Candle

A/N - Short first chapter, just getting things set up ;) More to come, feedback always welcome.

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Chapter 1: Here Comes a Candle

"Oh I'm so glad you're taking him out, it's been a while."

Late one October evening Sherlock Holmes and I were just getting ready to go find some much needed dinner when Mrs. Hudson, our always kindly, always concerned, and, usually, presumptuous landlady appeared in the doorway. I frowned, pulling my jacket on and wondering if she was referring to either of us in particular. "No one's taking anyone out, we're going to have dinner. Out. That's it."

I really shouldn't be so snippy, but it had been a long, rather pointless day and I was hungry. I looked to Sherlock for support, but he had become preoccupied with his scarf.

Mrs. Hudson smiled blithely. "Of course dear. I just wanted to make sure you two were getting out of the house, it isn't good to sit around all day!" She waved her fingers in a rather motherly gesture of sternness before slipping back downstairs to her own apartment.

I didn't even have a chance to point out that we'd spent the entire week out, chasing down some man who had faked his own death so his family could have the life insurance money.

Looking back, I found Sherlock staring at me expectantly. We started down the stairs and out into the chilly night air. Sherlock stepped to the curb to wave down a cab.

"Doesn't it bother you at all?" I asked, rubbing my hands together.

Sherlock looked at me. "What?"

"People assuming things all the time."

"Of course it does. Assumptions are rarely based on enough facts to be anywhere near valid."

I rolled my eyes at him as a black cab pulled up beside us and Sherlock opened the door. "I meant about us, specifically."

Sherlock was busy telling the driver where we were headed. He waited for me to climb in, then slid in beside me and slammed the door. We pulled out into the last onrush of Friday night traffic.

"Sherlock?" I prompted.

My companion turned an utterly blank look in my direction. "Sorry, what?"

He was probably working out whether or not our cabby was a psychopathic killer by the fabric of his hat. I sank lower in my seat and looked out the window. "Nothing, never mind. It obviously doesn't bother you."

"Obviously not as I have no idea what you're talking about." And there the conversation ended.

We ended up at a favorite Indian place off a main street in Soho. It hadn't yet gone on the radar of trendy, so lacked in the usual clusters of fashionably dressed London youth or, worse, tourists. Sherlock and I sat at a table near the window, and even he seemed ready to kick back and relax, as much as Sherlock Holmes ever kicked back and relaxed.

And afterwards, feeling full of food and a couple (okay, maybe closer to a few) beers, the world was spinning pleasantly around me. The street outside was dimly lit by the orange glow of streetlamps, and there stood Sherlock, an icy statue amongst it all. He looked at me with a light smirk. "Feeling better?"

"Oh yes," I said, taking a deep breath of the chilled night air and fumbling to zip up my jacket. "Yes, just what the doctor ordered."

Sherlock chuckled, and we wandered down the street and down a little alley off to the side that I could only assume was a short cut back to somewhere that we could catch a cab.

"_Oranges and lemons_, sir."

We both stopped and glanced to our left. A scruffy bearded man stood leaning against the wall, watching us with bright eyes. He smiled when we looked at him. "_You owe me five farthings_."

Maybe if my mind hadn't been so muddled by the alcohol and my overly full stomach I would have been able to make sense of what was going on, but I doubted it. I stepped closer to Sherlock, watching as the man stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered back down the way we had come, whistling to himself.

"_Here comes a candle to light you to bed_, Mr. Holmes!" He called back, cackling softly before he vanished into the shadows.

"Come on, John," Sherlock murmured, taking me by the arm and tugging me towards the entrance of the alley, frowning.

I looked up at him, stumbling a bit. "Was he one of your people?"

"No." The consulting detective shook his head. He looked worried, and that only made me more worried. "I think perhaps we should be getting home."

* * *

I would be the first to admit it. I was buzzed. Tipsy, even, but hell, I hadn't actually relaxed since I met Sherlock, so I think I had the right when we passed one of my old watering holes on the way home to stop in and have another pint or two. I even bought Sherlock a drink, but he ordered _wine_ of all things. Weirdo. Maybe Sally Donovan had a point.

"I'm not drunk, I'll be alright!" I tried to insist when I felt Sherlock's hands on my back, keeping me steady as we attempted to get up to our flat without waking Mrs. Hudson. I had no sooner said those words when my foot didn't quite lift high enough and I tripped, landing with a thud on the staircase.

Sherlock sat down beside me, patting my back and asking patiently if I would be alright.

"I said I'm fine," I said, sitting up. We were side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder on the darkened staircase. I glanced at Sherlock, and could tell he was pondering something. "Did you have fun?"

"Hmm?" He blinked. "I suppose, yes."

"We'll have to do something actually fun sometime."

"We do fun things a lot."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, your cases, that's different."

"John, if you haven't noticed I enjoy my cases. My mind needs to be stimulated, it rebels at this…this stagnation that so many people seem to find enjoyable."

"So…" I tuned to face him. We really were a bit too close for that to be anything less than awkward. "You didn't enjoy tonight because there wasn't anything for you to solve?"

Sherlock shot me a strange look out of the corner of his eye. "I didn't say that."

_You were thinking it though_, I thought glumly. "Fine," I said after a moment. "You're not entertained enough, I'm sorry for that, but…" I hesitated. He was giving me one of those intense, soul-piercing stares of his, and even in the gloom his pale eyes seemed to glow eerily. The light shining in through the transom of the front door threw his features into stark relief, sharp shadows against alabaster skin.

I blinked several times. What on earth had gotten into me?

I was still wondering that a second later when I found my lips pressed against Sherlock's, my hand resting on his arm. And, even more surprising, for the briefest moment it was utterly perfect; he might have a tint of frost about his personality, but his lips felt soft and warm against mine. Sherlock brought one hand up to rest in a fleeting touch against the side of my neck.

Then, abruptly, he drew back and got to his feet. Realizing what was happening, I stared determinedly at his shoes, still trying to get my head around it. I could hear him taking several long, unsteady breaths, and I did the same in an attempt to banish the heat rushing through me.

"I..hmmm…" he mumbled, as though he were pondering just another set of clues. Of course, to him, that's all this probably was.

I refused to say anything at the moment, and Sherlock turned to walk the rest of the way up into our flat. A minute later I heard the television turn on, and a soft light filled the stairs from the open door to our sitting room. I remained where I was, leaning back against the wall and feeling downright foolish.

"John!" Sherlock called. "John, get up here!"

Grumbling to myself, I stood and climbed the rest of the way into the flat. Sherlock stood before the telly, remote still in his hand, blinking in shock at the screen. I looked too. A news reporter stood in front of a blazing building with groups of firemen rushing around behind her. She said the blaze started earlier that night, and that there were no deaths reported yet but there were still people missing.

"Bloody hell," I said suddenly. "That's the restaurant! We were just there!"

Sherlock nodded.

"_Reports coming in so far regarding the severity and speed with which the blaze started seem to suggest the possibility of arson…"_

"Here comes a candle to light you to bed," Sherlock murmured, shutting off the television. "I'll give Lestrade a call in the morning. You should get to bed, John, you look awful."

I scratched the back of my head, still waiting for my brain to catch up with everything. "Thanks. Look, Sherlock, I - "

"We can talk in the morning. I have something I need to look up and you need to sleep." Sherlock gave me a lingering glance before he turned and strode off in the direction of his bedroom.

Running my fingers through my hair, I cast a pleading look upwards for a moment before hanging up my jacket and making my way upstairs to my room, and to my bed where I finally sank into a blissfully uneventful sleep.


	2. Chapter 2: Fire and Rhymes

A/N - Thanks to everyone for the reviews :)

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Chapter 2: Fire and Rhyme

Let's get things straight, the following morning could have started out far worse. I woke, took a shower, and was feeling almost chipper as I headed downstairs. That is until I spotted Sherlock sprawled in one of the armchairs, still wearing his clothes from the night before and staring up at the ceiling, palms pressed together and fingertips against the bottom of his chin. All the awkwardness and downright bizarreness of the previous night came rushing back to me. I swallowed thickly.

"Did you not sleep at all?" I asked, moving to sit down on the couch. To the best of my knowledge we barely had any tea in the house, let alone anything by way of breakfast. I watched Sherlock closely, and he shook his head. "Thinking about what happened?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock sat up straighter, resting his elbows on his knees now.

I sat back, rubbing a hand through my damp hair. "So, who the hell was that guy? And what was all that nonsense about oranges and candles?"

Sherlock lowered his hands and stared at me. "Excuse me?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Oh." Realization dawned on him. He shook his head. "A children's rhyme from the nineteenth century."

"You weren't…oh god…" Apparently what I had hoped would prove to be an insignificant drunken event obviously wasn't so insignificant after all. Outside in the street a police siren wailed, but in the flat silence reigned. I found myself feeling quite uncomfortable now. "Alright, Sherlock, look, about the other, erm, thing…I wasn't thinking…"

"Obviously. And now neither can I."

"What?"

He got to his feet, pacing and clasping and unclasping his hands. "I can't think, John, and that is such an odd an unacceptable thing for me. I tried telling Lestrade about what happened – with the man, I mean, and then the fire – but I could barely get all the words out…" he stopped by the window. "Damn it."

"I'm sorry," I murmured, looking down.

"Don't. I haven't had a chance to make sense of it yet." He walked back over and sat down next to me on the couch, again folding his hands, again appearing lost in thought.

I nodded, sighing, sitting back. I half expected him to continue, and when he didn't, I glanced at him. "Wait, make sense of what? Were you talking about me or the fire?"

"Neither."

"Sherlock, what in God's name are you…"

"Yoohoo boys, morning paper's arrived!" Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway like some well-meaning sort of fairy godmother. She held our paper and a plate of fresh scones in one hand. "And I made a large batch of these, thought you might like some…I hope I'm not interrupting."

Sherlock eyed the plate, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips. A strange shudder ran through me as I watched him, and I immediately gave myself a strong mental shake. Sherlock glanced at me, raising one eyebrow.

"No, come in, Mrs. Hudson, thank you, those smell fantastic…" I watched as she set the plate down. "You weren't interrupting, we were just talking about that fire last night…"

"Oh! The one over in Soho, that restaurant, yes I saw it in the paper, where was that…" She flipped open the paper. "Right, terrible business all around, seems a few people were badly injured and someone _died_ as well, can you imagine? They identified the body, was just some drifter but still…"

"I can imagine, actually," Sherlock murmured. "And there was the tattoo…"

Mrs. Hudson and I both stared at him.

"The tattoo?" I asked.

"The man who died. It was the one in the alleyway, the one who knew me," Sherlock said. "I noticed a peculiar and quite fresh tattoo on the back of his neck, a sort of totem style snake. I saw it because his hair had been carefully trimmed back there…Lestrade told me this morning that's how they identified the body."

"The article said they think it was arson," Mrs. Hudson continued, deciding not to ask too many questions about our whereabouts the previous night. "Is that true, Sherlock?"

He tapped his forefinger against his lips. "Yes I think it was."

Deciding I needed to focus on something else while Sherlock used our landlady as a sounding board, I grabbed one of the scones and took a bite. Still, my mind wandered, particularly to the fact that the old man in the alley had obviously known who Sherlock was. The last thing I wanted right now was to get caught up in some scheme involving someone targeting my flat-mate.

The sound of Mrs. Hudson heading back down to her own flat snapped me out of my train of thought. I found Sherlock staring at me oddly. "What?"

He brought one hand up to my cheek, brushing his thumb over my lower lip. "Crumbs," he said simply, and picked up the paper to begin leafing through it.

I shoved the last bite of scone into my mouth and closed my eyes. Bloody hell.

* * *

We sat together in Lestrade's office later that morning, though after we'd recounted our half of the strange occurrence, and Lestrade reported what they had found (the odd man was the top suspect for the blaze, which had been intentionally started) , none of it made any more sense to me. I was, however, much happier to focus on that than other pressing issues.

"You spoke with the owners of the restaurant, I take it?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade nodded. "Of course. They didn't have enemies, no one they knew of certainly who would do that as a personal grudge against them."

"No ties to a gang then, anything of that sort?"

"None," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "We did a background check, they're just an ordinary couple, nothing suspicious."

A slow smile spread over Sherlock's face. "Wonderful, that's just wonderful. Perfect."

Lestrade and I exchanged perplexed looks. Not that either of us had honestly expected anything less from our friend, but it would be nice if he at least provided some sort of explanation instead of just sitting there.

"Don't you see?" Sherlock looked between the two of us. "All of this, together, it's too much, something is going on here, something big and," his grin widened, "I am right in the middle of it all."

"Right…" A slow nod from Lestrade. "Well, better you than me I suppose, as long as you keep us updated and if this turns out to be something, really, that you let us know. Because if people's lives are in danger…"

Sherlock nodded, getting to his feet. "Yes, yes, of course…"

The door opened and a young woman, neatly dressed with chestnut hair drawn up in a bun and black framed glasses entered, moving to set a file on Lestrade's desk. "It's the full report from the fire last night," she said.

"Thank you, Donna," Lestrade said, smiling lightly at her as she turned to head back out to the main reception area.

"New secretary?" Sherlock asked, snatching up the file before Lestrade had a chance to. "She's American."

"Yes, interning here, top of her class at Harvard apparently." Lestrade scowled and held out his hand. "Can I have that back, please?"

After flipping through the file defiantly for a moment, Sherlock handed it to the detective inspector. "Yes, nothing in there I can use. I'll be in touch."

Lestrade nodded, still looking rather put out. I tried to shoot him an apologetic glance, but Sherlock had already grabbed my sleeve and tugged me out into the hall.

"D'you have to drag me about like that?" I growled, yanking my arm out of his grasp as we stepped out into the hustle and bustle of the main reception area.

"Do you have to keep dragging your feet like that?" came Sherlock's reply. He gave me a pointed look, and I swore there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. That man was going to drive me mad.

"Oh yeah, funny, really funny!" I said, and would have continued if Sergeant Donovan hadn't spotted us and wandered over with a smug look.

"Aw, having a row with your boyfriend, Freak?"

Sherlock gazed past her to two officers just entering, escorting a tough looking young man between them. "Not…really in the mood right now, Sally, don't you have better things to do?"

"Yeah, I suppose, this is more entertaining though."

"What's this?" Sherlock asked, nodding towards the young man being brought over by the two officers.

Sally was busy filling out a form and didn't look up. "Little punk was causing trouble down at Victoria Coach Station with some of his friends."

To my surprise Sherlock gave the young man a rather stern, arched eyebrow look. "Tony…"

"Wotcher, Sherlock," Tony said with a wide grin and halfhearted shrug. "You know how it is sometimes, me and the lads gotta do a bit of celebratin'." His expression grew serious. "Got something for ya though."

"Oh?" Sherlock stepped closer.

"People saying that fire last night weren't no accident, it was supposed to be for you." Tony shifted on his feet, but the officers kept him in place. "Word is there's somethin' moving in. Somethin' big and nasty."

"Alright alright," Sally cut in, motioning for the officers to take a hold of Tony. She smirked at Sherlock. "Sorry, Freak, no time for you to chat with your friend here, we've gotta get him in for fingerprinting."

With Sherlock giving Sally a particularly scathing look, the officers started dragging Tony off. At the last minute Tony turned back to Sherlock.

"They know who you are, Sherlock," he called, his brow furrowing now. "But they won't just stop with fire, not these ones. They want to bring London to its knees." Shooting my companion one last worried look, the young man let himself be led off.

"God, does that happen a lot?"

I turned to see Donna, the pretty young American intern, standing behind the reception desk. I smiled weakly at her. "Erm, welcome to London."

She laughed, flashing me a bright smile. "Boston isn't that much different, actually. The guys here just have cuter accents."

Behind me Sherlock scoffed. I managed to resist the urge to step on his foot.

"We should go, John, we have things to attend to," he said, pulling his gloves on and nodding towards the door. "The fate of London may hang in the balance."

I rolled my eyes, exchanging a bemused look with Donna.

"He must be an interesting guy to work with," she said, gathering up an armload of papers.

"Oh yes...never a dull moment."

Donna chuckled. "Have a good afternoon, Dr. Watson," she said softly, giving me a little wave before she headed back towards the offices.

"You too." I turned to follow Sherlock down and out into the street. Big Ben was tolling in the distance, and a group of tourists walked past us, a few stopping to snap photos of Scotland Yard. Sherlock was being suspiciously silent, and I finally sighed. "Oh, what?"

"You never told her your name."

"Sorry? Should I have?"

"She seemed to know it."

"So she heard Lestrade saying it." I stuck my hands in my pockets and frowned up at him.

Sherlock turned his head slightly to give me an odd look out of the corner of his eye. "How's Sara?"

"Oh, for God's – " I rolled my eyes. "I was not _flirting_, I was talking. I am allowed to talk to people, aren't I? Or do you now have a monopoly over my mouth as well as every waking minute of my life?"

Sherlock gave me a long, surprised look as he raised a hand to wave down a cab.

I swallowed. "Right, that came out…wrong."

"I would say it did, considering."

A cab pulled over for us, allowing me a minute to gather my thoughts as we climbed into the back seat. Settling down and listening to the rush of traffic all around, I soon realized Sherlock was still watching me, apparently not about to let it go.

"Look," I said, turning in my seat to face him. "About last night, can we just maybe forget about it?" And there, for a split second I saw that infuriating look in his eyes that let me know this wasn't going to be easy.

"Why should I forget about it? You obviously don't want to."

"Are you even listening to me?" I cried. "Didn't I just ask you to forget about it?"

"You keep bringing it up."

I gritted my teeth. "Only because I don't want you bringing it up at some entirely inappropriate moment, like in Lestrade's office or in front of your brother or something."

Sherlock turned to look out the window. "I'm not in the habit of kissing and telling, John." He glanced back at me with a light smile. I was still upset with him, however, or maybe more so with myself.

"Admit it, you're not in the habit of kissing at all," I snapped. "In fact, you're not in the habit of even just having a platonic relationship with someone! You know, most of the time I'm glad I don't know what's going on inside that head of yours."

That wiped the smug look right off his face. What replaced it however was far more upsetting. Did he actually look hurt? Or was this just another clever experiment of his? Regents Park appeared on our left and Sherlock turned to watch the trees go by. "You're angry with me."

"No…" I said finally, letting out a sigh as we rounded the corner onto Baker Street. "I shouldn't have done it. It was stupid, in fact, I can't even believe we're having this conversation…"

"Good, then let's not." Sherlock paid the cabby and we got out.

I leaned against the side of the building while he fumbled in his pockets for the keys. As we lingered there, a pair of young girls with their mums went skipping by, chanting in a sing-songy way as they did.

"_Oranges and lemons say the bells of Saint Clement's, _

_You owe me five farthings say the bells of Saint Martin's,_

_Oh when will you pay me say the bells of Old Bailey,_

_When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch_…"

Glancing up, I saw Sherlock following the girls with his eyes as they moved past us down the street. "Fires and nursery rhymes," he said softly. "Oh this is going to be a good one."

"They want to bring London to its knees," I said, remembering Tony's words from earlier. "And they know who you are? Doesn't that worry you?"

"Plenty of criminals know who I am, John, and hate me all the more for it. The ones who tell themselves they can take me down aren't the ones I'm particularly concerned with."

I frowned. "Then what are you concerned with?"

Sherlock smiled. "The ones who actually try."


	3. Chapter 3: Out of the Fire?

**A/N -** The chapters seem to keep growing in length. This one needed room for more slashiness though, so it's justified ;) Anyway, more to come, hope you enjoy this installment!

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Chapter 3: Out of the Fire?

Words in red spread out over the smooth wall of the cell. In the corner two men zipped closed a body bag around the corpse of poor, unfortunate Tony. Sherlock stood in the middle of the cell, examining the scarlet message with a pensive expression. To some it might seem a rather callous reaction to the death of a young man who had obviously been an associate, but Sherlock hadn't said a word since we received the news from Lestrade about what happened. I knew he'd noticed probably a million things upon entering the cell, but gave word to none.

"So," I said, stepping up beside him. I tipped my head, eyeing the message. "What's it written in, blood?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course not. Red paint." He gave me the same sort of look he gave newspaper reporters who were trying to make a story more dramatic than it actually was.

_Don't try to read between the lines,_

_Say the bells of St. Augustine's. _

"Is it another line from the poem?" I asked, frowning. "It doesn't really rhyme though."

"Only if you read it incorrectly. Visually it does." Sherlock took a deep breath before turning to Lestrade. "This is obviously connected with the fire."

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest, regarding Sherlock skeptically. "Oh yes? And how do you figure that?"

"The rhyme. That…oranges and lemons thing the children say that has all the names of the churches, the fact that both of these crimes have been linked to me…"

Anderson, who was one of the men cleaning up the body, looked up from where he crouched and scowled. "You're saying this is your fault?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes. "In exactly the same way it's my fault that I have to put up with you! Of course it isn't my fault, whoever is doing this decided they need to take me out to do whatever it is they're trying to accomplish."

"Because you're such a sociopath?" Anderson retorted.

"Alright, alright, can we stop this?" Lestrade said, glaring between the two men. "This is hardly the time or the place. Sherlock, aside from the fact that whatever is going on here is supposedly centered around you, is there anything else you can tell us?"

Sherlock turned to look at him. "No, that is what's going on here. I can give you whatever information you need about Tony, but as for the killer…" he brought his fingertips together and shook his head. "This is just another piece of the puzzle. As frustrating as it is, I may need to wait until they give me more…" He turned and strode from the cell.

I glanced around at the others, then hurried after Sherlock, Lestrade hot on my heels.

"So that's it?" Lestrade called after us. "People are dying, Sherlock, and all you're going to do is wait?"

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the reception area and turned to face Lestrade as he pulled his scarf on. "Fine. This is someone in control of a great number of people, gang leader or some such position. There are a few things of which I am absolutely sure, first, that they want control of London in one respect or another. Secondly, this person is plotting a major move in the near future, no doubt something you government types will label an act of terrorism, and you will be correct. Thirdly that all of these clues are leading me into a trap so that this person can have me out of the way before they make their biggest move against this city."

The entire room had gone eerily silent, all attention now on us. I looked over at the desk and met Donna's wide, shocked eyes.

Lestrade let out a long sigh. "And you're still going to keep following them, even knowing, or figuring or whatever, that it's a trap?"

"If I don't there will be far worse consequences," Sherlock replied. "More people will die." He frowned. "You don't believe me."

"No," Lestrade sighed. "I'm sure you can back up everything you've just told me, Sherlock, it's just this all seems more like something out of a James Bond movie and less like something out of real life."

Sherlock turned to him with a dark smile. "Psychopaths always have a flare for the dramatic."

"And you would know, wouldn't you, Freak?" Sally appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She stepped up to Lestrade's side. "Sir, call for you, it's about this…" she nodded back in the direction of the cells.

Lestrade didn't look too thrilled at the prospect. "Sherlock, would you mind just hanging on for a minute while I finish this?"

"I suppose…" Sherlock said idly, glancing at the clock. "As long as it doesn't take too long."

"Two minutes!" Lestrade promised, heading back towards his office.

I sighed and back against the edge of the front desk. Whoever was doing all of this obviously knew my friend quite well, especially the way he couldn't resist a challenge, even if, no, _especially if_ his life was at stake. The idea of something happening to him briefly crossed my mind, and a thick lump welled in my throat. I looked over at Sherlock, but managed to hold my tongue. Around us, the busy flutter of the reception area had started up again. I could hear Donna shuffling papers and answering phones behind me. Officers came and went dragging various no-good-nicks through.

Lestrade returned, though Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That was three minutes and forty seconds. I told you I don't have time for this, we have a dinner reservation." He glanced back at me, indicating I was part of the 'we.'

"We do?" I raised my eyebrows.

"Yes, Italian place over in South Kensington. _Ghirlandaio's_, something like that."

"You and me? Dinner?" I said, still giving him a baffled look.

Lestrade looked half annoyed and half amused, which was his general attitude towards anything Sherlock did. "You know, Sherlock, when you're taking someone out on a dinner date you're generally supposed to tell them first."

"It's not a date!" I snapped automatically. Then something jumped in my chest. I looked to Sherlock with wide, questioning eyes, then immediately regretted even thinking about asking when I remembered we were standing in a crowded room.

"It was Mycroft's suggestion," Sherlock said with a long-suffering sigh.

That didn't do much to reassure me about his motives. "Mycroft? Sherlock, when do you _ever_ listen to a suggestion of Mycroft's?"

"Since he has a surveillance camera in our front hallway." Sherlock gave me a very pointed look. I could feel all the blood draining from my face. Dear God. Sherlock shook his head, muttering something about destroying the offending piece of technology as soon as we got home.

"I'm not sure I even want to know," Lestrade muttered. "Sherlock, just a quick word before you go dashing off."

My flat mate turned to him, silently waiting for the quick word.

"I've been pulled from the case," Lestrade said, then, when Sherlock's eyes widened questioningly, continued, "Yes, apparently someone up high agrees with you. They agree with you so much that they've decided to call this a matter of national security and take it off my hands."

"Did they say anything about me being taken off of it?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade gave him a calculating look. "Would you listen if I said they had?"

"No." Sherlock motioned to me. "Come along, John. We need to get to the restaurant."

Reluctantly I followed him out, wondering if anyone else's head was spinning the way mine was. Sitting back in a cab a few minutes later, I stared at Sherlock with an intense frown. Outside the city was starting to light up for the evening, and I was trying to switch my mind from murder scene to dinner with Sherlock Holmes. And speaking of which…

"Was this _really_ Mycroft's suggestion?"

"Yes." Sherlock gazed out the window thoughtfully. "Or rather, Mycroft's insistence. He got the reservation and told me I had better use it."

"Or what?" A horrible thought came into my mind, just as I remembered that Sherlock often referred to his brother as the most dangerous man I'd ever meet. "Was…was he going to blackmail you or something?"

Sherlock's head snapped around. "What?"

"Well, you said he had a camera in our front hall, I take it you meant he has a recording –"

"John," Sherlock said, holding up his hand to stop me. "First of all, if Mycroft wanted to blackmail me there are far worse things he could use. I doubt it would come as a surprise to anyone to see me kissing another man."

I let out a long sigh. "What was it then?"

"He realized how dangerous this case is going to get, how important it is. He told me he'd have me forcibly kept away from it if I didn't take him up on his suggestion."

"So that was him that took Lestrade off of it?"

"I am sure."

"Good, good…" The Thames sparkled on our left and I gazed out at it for a moment. Then, suddenly something struck me. "No, no, wait, that's not good!"

"John?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You're saying the only reason we're going out to dinner is because your brother threatened you?" I liked to think that I had gotten quite used to Sherlock's social awkwardness in the time we'd been living together, I could put up with his rude behaviors and unintentional egotism, but for some reason this struck a deeper chord with me. I wasn't annoyed, I was thoroughly disappointed and let down.

And I could tell by the way Sherlock was studying my face he was trying to figure out what was going on in my head, trying to gauge, as he did, what would be the correct and appropriate response. "I didn't say I won't enjoy having dinner with you."

"Seriously? That's the best you can do?" When Sherlock chose not to respond to this, I turned my back to him with a huff.

Needless to say we were in a less than amiable mood when we arrived at the restaurant a while later. I was relieved to see that it wasn't a necessarily couple ridden restaurant, there were plenty of large groups of friends and…couples…couples….They sat us at a two person table against the wall. Candlelight threw shivering shadows over Sherlock's face. Damn it was hard to stay mad at him when he was looking like that.

"Usually its you yelling at me for sulking," he said, looking at me over the top of the wine menu.

I opened the menu, making a great show of examining the options. It really wasn't a surprise that everything sounded wonderful, a man who knew everything about the city would no doubt know the best places to eat. Score one for Mycroft.

"You're ignoring me, fine…"

I set the menu down. "Yes, Sherlock, because I'm mad at you."

"Because I took you out for dinner?"

"No, because it took a threat from your brother to get you to!" I paused then, mostly because I recalled hearing almost the exact same argument between a young man and woman standing outside Speedy's the other morning. "What's really going on here, Sherlock? Are you actually trying or is this your really round about way of letting me down?"

"Letting you down?" Sherlock gazed at me, and if it was anyone but him I'd say he looked confused. "This is why I don't usually bother myself with trivial things like feelings and relationships…" he murmured, lifting the menu.

I didn't really think his intentions were anywhere near as hard as his words, but under the circumstances I didn't particularly care. I wadded up the napkin that had been in my lap, threw it onto the table and got to my feet. "Excuse me." I muttered, heading in the direction of the bathrooms.

The men's bathroom had two stalls in it, but I locked the main door behind myself anyway, walking over to lean on the edge of one of the sinks and stare at myself in the mirror. I still wasn't actually sure if I was mad at myself, or at Sherlock. Honestly, if he was confused, could I really blame him? I had just been asking him to forget the kiss on the stairs and now I was angry because he only took me out after having his arm twisted.

"God, you're turning into a teenaged girl," I told my reflection.

There was a light rap at the door. "John?"

"Go away, Sherlock, I'll be out in a minute."

Silence, then came an odd scratching noise. I looked at the door, frowning when the lock suddenly turned. Sherlock pushed the door open and stepped in, sliding something into his pocket as he did so. He shut the door behind him.

I continued frowning. "You picked the lock."

"I ordered that chicken risotto for you, I hope you don't mind," he said. Then, "I didn't mean to upset you, John."

"No, no," I tapped my hands against the cool porcelain of the sink. "I haven't really been too clear about what I want, have I? And you, well, even with someone very good at expressing themselves socially, you'd be at a loss in this situation. Don't…take that as an insult."

Sherlock moved to stand closer to me. I looked up at him, my heart suddenly pounding a machine-gun barrage against the inside of my chest. It was making it hard to breath properly. I turned to face him, leaning back against the tile wall behind me.

"Well?" Sherlock said, standing all too close to me now. "Now is as good a time as any to tell me what you do want."

In an attempt to stop its psychotic spasms, I think my heart jumped up and lodged itself tightly into the back of my throat. "What I want?"

"Yes." He took another step closer, then reached out to put his hands on my waist. It crossed my mind that this was a rather strange gesture for someone so adverse to unnecessary contact. All thoughts fled my brain however as he rested his forehead against mine, the tips of our noses touching, his breath playing across my lips. "Tell me."

"Can't I just…" I murmured, my voice vanishing into the air.

"Mhmm." Sherlock tipped his head to the side enough to brush his lips over mine, questioningly, then drew me closer as we kissed again.

This time it wasn't awkward. I slid my hands up, grabbing onto his jacket lapels, forgetting entirely that we were in the bathroom of a fancy restaurant as that one moment seemed to stretch out forever.

The door opened. Sherlock turned away from me seamlessly, switching on the faucet and pretending to be washing his hands. I was left with nothing but to grab a paper towel and act at drying mine off. The man who entered barely looked at us as he moved to one of the urinals.

Sherlock gave me an intense look before nodding towards the door. Out in the little hall that had the bathrooms on it I had to stop and lean against the wall for a few minutes, as my legs had apparently turned into something far less stable than flesh and blood. Sherlock gave me a pleased little half smile before heading back to our table.

When I had finally regained enough motor-control to return to the table myself, I saw that the waiter had just brought our food out. He was also leaning over and whispering a little too intimately in the ear of the man I'd only just been snogging in the bathroom. (That thought in and of itself brought a flush to my cheeks.)

By the time I actually reached the table, however, the waiter had slipped off. I sat down and looked over at Sherlock, who hadn't yet touched his food. "What was that?"

"Jealous already?" Sherlock shot back, smirking.

"No, seriously, Sherlock, unless you were asking him about the dessert menu…"

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder. "He won't be getting a very good tip, I'll tell you that. Though he may have given me one." He looked back at me with one of those maniacal smiles that usually proceeded us dashing off across the rooftops of London. "St. Paul's, John, what better place to take a stab at the heart of the city."

"You're kidding," I said, though at the moment I was far more eager to dig into the chicken risotto Sherlock had aptly ordered for me. "When?"

"Tomorrow night, if our moonlighting friend is right. And yes, moonlighting because I know I've seen him somewhere before…I just can't quite put my finger on it…"

I chewed a mouthful of food, fixing him with a frown. "Well, then, you'd better let Lestrade or Mycroft or whoever know."

"No…" Sherlock shook his head, reaching out to run the tip of one slender finger around the rim of the small candle on the table. "No I think I'll go myself."

"Sherlock," I said, setting my fork down. "You said yourself these clues were leading to a trap for you…"

"I'll be careful, John."

"I'm coming with you."

He picked up his fork and began poking at the pasta on his plate, without any real intention of eating any. "John, we kissed, we didn't sign a marriage agreement. You don't have to follow me for better or for worse."

"No, but seeing as I'm the one who usually has to end up pulling your butt out of the fire…" I tried to mirror the sort of intense look he was so naturally capable of throwing me. "You know I'm coming whether you want me to or not. I won't let you do this alone." I swallowed thickly. "Especially not after that."

Again the little smile returned. "How are your legs? It's rather intriguing, this effect I have on your motor functions. Speech and movement both seemed to be - "

"Sherlock!" I snapped, narrowing my eyes at him. "Shut up and eat your dinner. I'm not an experiment." Then I paused. "Were you just making fun of yourself?"

Sherlock however had just shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth and was unable to answer.

* * *

**A/N** - As always, comments/reviews/feedback greatly appreciated :)


	4. Chapter 4: Out of the frying pan

Chapter Four: Out of the Frying Pan…

I could still remember the first time I had ever been in St. Paul's Cathedral, when I was very young, holding my father's hand as we entered the great church. I remembered my little mind being utterly boggled by the sheer size of it, the ceiling miles above my head, the pillars stretching up and up and up…and the calm, permeating silence all around.

Now as Sherlock and I entered we caught the faint echo of voices, the end of an evensong service as the last people – worshippers, pilgrims and tourists alike – walked around for the night. We pretended to examine the countless memorials along the outer walls, pausing before one, Sherlock examining the small group of people still listening to the choir.

I looked at the marble plaque nearest us, reading the inscription. "Well that's oddly fitting for us, isn't it?"

"Sorry?" Sherlock barely glanced at me.

"_Until the day break, and the shadows flee away_." I read. "That's the only time we'd really be able to be together, isn't it? Metaphorically speaking. You know, shadows standing in for crime…" I glanced back at Sherlock. He looked oddly appropriate standing there, palms pressed together before him in an odd parody of prayer. I swallowed and stuck my hands in my pockets. "Right, sorry, not exactly the best time to try and be romantic."

The chorus had stopped singing, and once again the cathedral filled with contemplative silence. The great windows were dark now, and tall candelabras threw a soft orange glow over the congregation. There was something sinister about it all as I knew that something terrible was getting ready to happen.

"On the contrary, John," Sherlock said. "Wasn't it you who said I get off on this sort of thing?"

I wrinkled my nose. "Actually that was Sergeant Donovan. And I said _romantic_, Sherlock, not weirdly kinky."

Sherlock chuckled, turning to survey the small crowd of people still in the seats, listening to the last words of the priest. I looked as well, trying to use Sherlock's methods to spot anyone suspicious. All that I realized, however, was that I recognized someone sitting in the back row.

"Oh no…" I muttered, starting off towards her. I completely ignored Sherlock's warning hiss behind me. "Donna," I said when I reached the young intern. She looked up, almost surprised to see me there. "Donna, you should get out of here. There's…something's going to happen, something bad, you really shouldn't…"

There come those moments in life when you realize all too late that you've made a terrible, terrible mistake. The last time it happened to be had been in Afghanistan, rising up out of my hiding spot and turning to see a man with a gun pressed against my best mate's head. And now, suddenly I got that same lift-gone-mad sinking feeling in my gut as Donna got to her feet, a slow, bored sort of smile spreading over her face.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, I really don't know why he puts up with you," she said, running her fingers through her hair. She waved her hand and some sort of commotion broke out around us, but I was too paralyzed with momentary shock to notice yet. "You're such an idiot sometimes."

"You can't do this!"

The shout broke through to me. I turned to see the priest trying to struggle away from two large armed men who were herding him in with the rest of the congregation. Looking over my shoulder I saw another two holding Sherlock.

"Oh, forgive me, father, for I'm about to sin. Badly," Donna said. Above us the bells began to toll. She looked around with a pleased expression, nodded once then began to recite softly,

" _Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement's,_

_You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martins,_

_Oh when will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey._

_When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch._

_When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney,_

_When I am old, say the bells of St. Paul's..._"

It took only a small gesture from her for the armed men to move the group of people – hostages, I suppose – over to the side, then another for them to bring Sherlock over. Donna began rolling up one sleeve to reveal the snake design twined around her forearm.

"Tell me about myself, Sherlock," she said, turning to look at him. "I've led you on enough, you should've figured something out."

Sherlock stiffened. "Judging by your not so carefully controlled accent, you were raised by Irish parents in the slums of South Boston. You were loyal to them, otherwise you wouldn't have the symbol of your father's particular branch of the mob tattooed on your arm. However, you did well in school. Well enough that you realized soon you were too good for his dirty work, you got admitted to Harvard, used that as your stepping point to break as far away from the life of your childhood as you possibly could. That is until you arrived here, saw the potential and realized you weren't as different from your father as you had originally thought."

"Oh good, very close," Donna said. "Except there was no sudden realization. I planned to do this all along, to bring London under my control. I never thought I was different from my father in any way except that I would one day do much greater things than him. The rest is true. I got where I am because I am so very smart and because everyone believed my pathetic sob story about wanting to make amends for and get away from my father's crimes."

"That's very ambitious of you. London is a big city."

Donna grinned. "You said yourself psychopaths like a flare for the dramatic. And I don't care what you say, you are one. Otherwise you wouldn't be here, and you certainly wouldn't have dragged your boyfriend into it to." She turned to smile sweetly in my direction. I glared at her.

"He's not the one that will bring you down," Sherlock said. "I will. And if you harm him in any way, I will ensure you do not leave here in one piece."

I blinked, staring at him, unsure whether to feel touched by the threat, or disturbed. The way he said it too, keeping his calm, level demeanor, certainly wasn't doing anything to disprove Donna's accusation of being a psychopath.

Donna rolled her sleeve back down again. "No, Sherlock, it's you that's not going to leave here alive, I'm afraid, but you already knew that, didn't you? As long as you make sure all these innocent people…" she gestured to the congregation, "and your lover are all right, then you'll be happy."

"Wrong," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, right, excuse me, you don't care about them, or him." She nodded in my direction. A pair of strong arms grabbed me from behind, and another man stepped forward, bringing the side of his gun sharply against my head. Pain flared through my skull and my vision swam. Across from me, Sherlock remained impassive. Donna just laughed. "As long as you figure out what I'm really up to, that's all you care about."

"In a few moments police and government officials will have this place surrounded," Sherlock said. "Whatever it is you're planning…"

"What am I planning?" Donna pretended to be thoughtful for a moment. Outside police sirens were growing louder, and louder. Through the windows we could see flashing blue and white lights, which mixed on Donna's face with the candle light for an eerie effect. She smiled, then waved her hand at her men. "You can let them go."

With an immediate rush all the people ran towards the doors. Sherlock, however, remained where he was, even when the two men holding him stepped back. And of course, wherever Sherlock was, so was I.

"Now, I know you don't know much about literature or popular culture," Donna continued. "But I'll ask anyway…why do you think I picked that awesome little rhyme as my theme song?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed, then he looked to me. I sighed, suddenly glad I'd paid attention in class.

"It's used in George Orwell's novel _1984_," I murmured.

Donna clapped her hands together. "One point for Johnny! Yeah, I read that book in high school and it left such an impact on me. And you, Sherlock, should know even better than I do what I'm talking about. I mean, your Big Brother, literally, _your big brother_, Mycroft, watches everything in this city, doesn't he? Well, after reading that I realized that for control to work, it needs to come from the bottom up, not the other way around. But, I'm beating around the bush. The last two lines of the poem are really what matters to you, Sherlock." She turned to me once again. "Gold star to Johnny if he can tell us what they are."

My head was throbbing from the blow I'd received earlier. I could feel blood trickling down my temple and cheek. Thoughts didn't come easily. I shook my head.

"Think back to when you first met one of my people."

"Here comes a candle to light you to bed," I managed finally. "Here…here comes a chopper to chop off your head…"

"Bingo." Donna said with a grin.

I closed my eyes for two seconds, and in that time missed everything. A loud noise like splitting marble echoed through the cathedral, and when my eyes snapped open, Donna was gone, and Sherlock stood there with one hand pressed to his side. He looked at me, then promptly fell to the floor.

"Sherlock!" I rushed over to him, panic surging through me. His eyes were open, but beneath his fingers a dark stain was quickly spreading.

"John…" he gasped, coughing, and more blood dribbled over his lips and chin.

No, I thought desperately, kneeling beside him, bullet wound to the abdomen, internal bleeding, this wasn't good, there was no way… "Sherlock, just stay with me! Look at me!" I pressed my hand to the injury, trying to keep pressure on the wound, but all I could feel was his blood, hot beneath my fingers. "Look at me!"

He tried to, but those bright eyes were starting to glaze over.

Someone tried to pull me away from him. Through the chaos breaking out I realized with surprise it was Lestrade, and that Mycroft was bending over the prone form of his brother, looking very worried indeed. Paramedics were rushing in, and two of them moved to me, checking my injury then trying to escort me outside where the ambulances were waiting. Moments later I saw two more medics carrying Sherlock on a stretcher between them, Mycroft at their side bellowing orders.

Night had fallen, of course, but all of the emergency lights on the steps of St. Paul's created a sort of artificial daylight. Pain spiked through my head and I closed my eyes, leaning suddenly against the paramedic at my side.

_Until the day break and the shadows flee away_…

Except it wasn't over yet. I let myself be pulled into the back of an ambulance and have the wound on the side of my head examined. It wasn't over yet, but in such a foolishly simple way, Donna may have very well taken Sherlock out of the game.

I laughed at that thought.

"Dr. Watson?" One of the paramedics said, raising her eyebrows as she checked my pulse.

"Nothing," I said, still chuckling. "It's just…Sherlock being taken out of the game, ridiculous thought…" I closed my eyes, leaning back on the bed as the ambulance took off. This time I entirely missed the worried look exchanged between the two paramedics at the mention of my friend (now, lover, boyfriend, what?) as we sped off into the night.


End file.
